Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

“Confidence and carelessness,” Royan said, his voice coming from the terminal. “Or to put it bluntly: hubris. Good word for my life.”

“Are you hurt?” Julia asked.

“Only my pride.” The terminal chuckled.

Julia swung round to face Greg. “Is that truly him talking?”

Greg nodded silently. The mental activity matched, and the bitter spike of humour.

“Let him out,” Julia said.

“You are unaware of the implication inherent in that stateinent,” the bland voice said.

“Royan?” she pleaded.

“The Hexaëmeron is correct,” Royan said. “That’s why you were summoned.”

Rick tilted his head on one side, frowning. “Hexaëmeron? That’s a human term, biblical, the six days it took God to make the Earth.”

“I have no language of my own. Obviously I have to use human terms. Royan seemed to think this was appropriate.”

“What are you?” Rick asked, his voice raised.

“My planet’s evolutionary terminus, and progenitor,” said the Hexaëmeron.

“And that’s the problem,” said Royan.

“Did you come on a starship?” Rick asked.

“No.”

Rick let out a hiss of breath. “Then how did you get here?” it was almost a shout.

“By my mistake,” said Royan. “Have you reviewed the personality programs I left for you, Snowy?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know my original edit for the disseminator plant was a symbiotic arrangement; terrestrial landcoral and the alien microbes working in tandem.”

“You said it was a prototype, and that geneticists could splice together a single genetic structure once you had proved the concept.”

“Yeah. The prototype started to work out pretty good. You saw what I’ve done with the fault zone. Then something happened.”

“Consciousness initiation,” said the Hexaëmeron.

“Too bloody true,” Royan said. “The alien microbes achieved a rudimentary kind of sentience. I said nothing like that gene sphere could exist naturally, and I was right. It was designed, for flick’s sake, a very deliberate design. The core of the sphere doesn’t have anything to do with genetics, it’s a molecular circuit with a function similar to a neurone, but considerably more sophisticated. And there’s a threshold level; clump enough of the microbes together and they develop a processing capacity. For want of a better description, they start thinking for themselves. And of course, I grew them in their billions for the disseminator plant.”

“Dear Lord,” Julia gazed at the alien. “This is it, the sentient microbe cluster?”

“No, unfortunately. The thought-processing organism is only stage one. That’s where the real trouble starts. These aliens have the ability to control their own genetic heritage, they can consciously switch individual genes on and off. Christ knows where that ability comes from. Whoever heard of instant evolution?”

“I am protean by nature,” said the Hexaëmeron. “Internal cellular modification to fulfil a specific function requirement is inherent, what I am.”

“Yeah, right,” Royan said. “Anyway, this was the chamber where the microbes went critical. After that, the Hexaëmeron started to grow entirely new types of cells for itself, and shifted its consciousness into them. That’s what you’re looking at now, a protean entity capable of fashioning itself to operate in any environment.

“I thought the disseminator plant was mutating at first, some kind of transgenic process with the microbes infecting the landcoral; which actually was a pretty good guess. You get that in really complex bioware sometimes; chromosome deletion or translocation, the growth pattern is distorted out of recognition. That’s why I rigged up the gamma mines, as a last resort. Christ, alien cells with an exponential growth rate, who knows what it would have ended up as. A cancer the size of an arcology eating its way down Hyde Cavern. I could just see me trying to explain that away to you, Snowy. I was trying to track down the nature of the mutation so it could be isolated when the bugger went for me.”

“You would have destroyed me,” the Hexaëmeron said impassively.

“Maybe,” said Royan. “But not straight away. I want to learn, to understand. Barbarians destroy without reason. We might not be as far along the evolutionary scale as you, but I’d like to think we’re above that.”

“What do you mean, it went for you?” Greg asked.

“Exactly what you see, Greg. Every protean cell this new consciousness had produced coagulated together like God’s own amoeba, and swallowed me whole. It was going to crush me into a pulp and digest me, use me as food for new protean cells.”

Greg gave Julia a quick glance. She had turned pale, staring up at Royan’s shaded face. Waves of guilt and revulsion were punishing her mind. The idea was making him feel pretty queasy as well.

“So how did you stop it?” Rick asked.

“Hey, you’re talking to Son, you know,” Royan said with his old swagger. “I was one of the best flicking hotrods that ever plugged into the circuit back home. When the Hexaëmeron pulled its Jonah stunt, I glitched its command procedures. See, any sentient entity, however freaky, functions in the same fashion: observation, analysis, response. Intelligence is the processing of data, that means networks and routines.

Which in turn means it can be disrupted with the right sort of disinformation. With ‘ware it’s easy, viruses have been around as long as integrated circuits. Organic brains are a little trickier to break; high-frequency light can induce epilepsy, but that’s crude; psychics use eidolonics to corrupt memories and perception directly; the military have developed a whole range of disorientation techniques. It was just a question of finding something appropriate.

“The Hexaemeron was processing data in a homogeneous cellular array, halfway between a bioware processor and a neural network. I loaded in my glitch virus, and stopped the cells which were attacking me dead in their tracks. Then I substituted my own management routines and took control. Trouble was, I didn’t get all of the cells in time. The main Hexaëmeron consciousness saw what I was doing, and isolated all the cells I’d usurped, cut them straight out of its command procedure. So now I control the cells directly around me; I’ve organized them into a life-support mechanism, feeding me nutrients and oxygen, siphoning out piss and carbon dioxide. But the Hexaemeron retains its integrity throughout the other cells, those are the ones surrounding mine. What we’ve got here is a very delicately balanced stand-off.”

“Which you hope we can break,” Greg said. He’d been studying the Hexaëmeron, it would be easy enough to kill with the rip guns; the trick would be extracting Royan alive. Maybe they could set the Tokarev lasers to longburn, char the outer layer of cells away. He wondered how the Hexaëmeron would react if they started doing that.

“You have already broken our stasis,” said the Hexaëmeron. “As we intended you to.”

“Summoned,” Julia murmured. “You said we were summoned.”

“You and Clifford Jepson,” said the Hexaëmeron. “That is correct. Our situation outline is a simple one: Royan can still trigger the gamma mines, destroying all life in this chamber, and I retain the capacity to physically ingest the cells under his authority. Neither of us is capable of dominating the other. Mutual suicide is all we can achieve by ourselves. Clearly, this cannot be allowed to continue.”

“Clearly,” Julia said.

“We came to an arrangement,” Royan said. “Each of us would call someone who would terminate the stand-off in our respective favour. I chose you, and used Charlotte Fielder to deliver my warning message.”